


Now Comes the Night

by Katbelle



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Case, Budding Love, Case Fic, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Movie/Brick Fusion, Original Character Death(s), Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2013-09-07
Packaged: 2017-12-25 22:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katbelle/pseuds/Katbelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was a body in the river. And then, suddenly, there was a case, causing problems in the public for the former Inspector-turned-<em>Commisaire</em> Javert. Coupled with troubles in the private, an unexpected turn in the investigation might prove to be just <em>that</em> too much to handle.</p><p>Or, a "casefic. Javert has to solve some sort of crime or crimes (theft or something), and try to juggle his burgeoning romantic life (involving a good-natured Valjean, of course) on the side while being continuously dragged back on the job."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now Comes the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for prompt #35 on the Valvert Gift Exchange as a gift for the amazing and flawfree **Dong**. I don't mind meeting you like this. :)

**Now Comes the Night**

_The most difficult crime to track is the one which is purposeless._

~***~

**I: The Girl in the Water**

~***~

This looked bad.

He took another step back. His thighs collided with the cold stone of the parapet. He glanced back; there was nowhere to move now, only up.

"Up," the man barked, predictably.

Up, up, onto the parapet. No. He stared at the man, one long, hard look. The man shook the gun he was holding, the gun he took away from him. Stupid, careless. He did as he was told. It was not that high, he tried to convince himself. Not higher than in Paris, that last time. And the Vienne was not as swift as the Seine, the currents were not as strong. Perhaps--Lord, no. He was deluding himself. 

"This is all rather amusing," the man said as he took a step closer. Close enough that if he fired, it would be a deadly shot to the chest, the bullet would not miss; but not close enough to reach him, to lunge at him, to try and turn the whole situation in his favour. So utterly stupid.

"I am glad you find it so," Javert muttered. Noise in the distance, coming from the road to the city. Footsteps on cobblestones, echoing off walls in the quiet of the night. Two pairs, both of them known to him intimately. Clara. Valjean. Good of them to finally show up. He ought to have taken someone with him, had he not? Thirty-six people under his command and he did not--he just didn't. Hell, perhaps Clara was right and he was a reckless bastard. Well, not a bastard precisely, but reckless... That was debatable, but most probably true. Unlikely that he would get a chance to tell her so now, however.

"Javert!"

Even from the distance, Valjean sounded quite desperate. He might be thinking that Javert was intending to jump. Ridiculous, but given past evidence--such a conclusion was not entirely far-fetched. It was rather logical, in fact. And the only way out he had now. Last time he got lucky and did not break his spine. But the Vienne was much shallower than the Seine, would he get lucky now?

A quick glance behind. No, no, doubtful. This time Valjean would fish out a corpse. Javert looked back to the man standing in front of him, feet firmly placed on the bridge. He looked up the barrel of his own gun and into the man's eyes. No matter what he did now, Valjean would fish out a corpse either way. There was no point in jumping.

He straightened and turned his chin up. "I believe that is your cue," he said. Let it be known that he died like he lived, reckless, utterly stupid and defiant to the end.

The man glanced to his left, up the street, and smiled. It was oh so easy to interpret that smile. Valjean and Clara were running to the bridge but were still some good sixty meters away. They would--they would not make it in time. Impossible. No, never. The man had him at gunpoint, it would be so easy to pull the trigger now and flee. There would be one more body in the river and a criminal, a murderer, at large. Clara said something about a tilbury. Did he have a tilbury waiting for him on the other side of the bridge? In an alley, so that no one would think much of it?

"Yes, I believe it is," the man replied. And did nothing more, just stared at Javert with that damned smile. It was grating on his nerves.

"Would you _do_ something at last?" Javert asked. His heart was hammering in his chest and he could feel a bile rising up in his throat. He swallowed, inhaled deeply, attempted to calm himself, to no avail. "This suspense is quite--irritating."

"You think yourself so brave," the man sneered. The footsteps — which were growing louder and closer until now — stopped. "But deep down you are _still_ that scared little boy you were back then, are you not?" The man raised his hand, the one in which he was holding the gun, and aimed at Javert's head. "Now, with everything else gone... It truly is long overdue that we get rid of that one remaining tie to the past. So, shall we?"

" _No!_ " 

That was Valjean, from still quite a distance away. Valjean. He was a forgiving kind of man, was he not? He would forgive Javert, he would forgive him this--this, this _everything_ , even if he was forgiving only his memory. Heh. Poor Valjean. He should not have bought that house. He should have stayed in Paris, safe, with his darling daughter. Nothing good ever came from living in Limoges.

Javert closed his eyes.

_Bang._

~***~

_Five Days Earlier_

~***~

He slipped out of the bed quietly, not rousing Valjean, and reached for the shirt that was lying closest to the bed. Valjean's, of course, too big for him in the shoulders, made from a much more delicate fabric than his own. His own, which he lost track of somewhere, at some point, yesterday. He pulled the shirt closer around his frame, turned his head to the side and buried his nose in the collar. It smelled like Valjean, smelled of soap and lavender and parchment.

Barefoot, he padded to stand by the balcony door. The glass of it was cold to touch, reminiscent of the low temperature outside, albeit the inside of the bedroom was pleasantly warm. There was a fire in the fireplace and Valjean made sure that it would not die out at night, while they slept. It was a nice contrast to his own rented room, cold and dusty and smelling stale. Even with the higher pay here, he could not afford anything better. More importantly, he did not need anything better. For months it was just him and it was supposed to still be just him if not for Valjean, waltzing back into his life with his kind smile and warm hazel eyes and warm rough hands and money he did not know what to do with.

He needed a charity case and with that girl happily married off, he decided to settle for Javert.

Not a chance. Javert absentmindedly picked at the sleeve. He should not even be here. He should be trying to find sleep in his own uncomfortable bed, thinking about--No, not that either. Valjean should have left the town and he should not have sought him out. He should not have been allowed to stay, he should not have had a reason to. It was only going to end in tears and humiliation, like it always did.

It was entirely her fault, of course. Mademoiselle Thrice-Damned Delpont, meddling in affairs not her own.

"Come back to bed," came from the direction of said bed, uttered by a voice still layered with sleep. So he did notice Javert's absence. It did not take him long. Instinct of a criminal, no doubt; man on the run had to be attuned to his surroundings and be able to pick up on any change.

Javert cleared his throat. "Pass," he said. He should find his shirt, get dressed and go back to his own quarters. It was the third night he had spent here, with Valjean, this week and it was barely Thursday. If not for the fact that most of the interested parties seemed to think he was awkwardly courting Mademoiselle Delpont — rumour no doubt spread by Clara herself, the girl infuriated him beyond reason — someone would have surely noticed and commented on it by now. Limoges was no Paris, after all, gossip spread much quicker here. 

He heard Valjean sit up on the bed. It was an old, antique thing, it creaked. It was a good thing that there was no one in the house except for Valjean so no one would hear the bed at night. Not many things could make it creak like that.

"Are you not cold?"

Was he cold? He was so used to being cold that he hardly noticed it nowadays. "No," he replied. Glanced back. Valjean was sitting on the bed, naked, but with sheets pooling at his waist. Broad chest, peppered with slightly curling brown hairs, well-toned. Not--not ugly, and now marred by angry red nail-marks across the breastbone, and he did that. He did more to that body than this, of course, over the years, but still. He did that, he, his fingers, and it was a strange thought to hold.

"But you're shivering."

"Am I?" Was he? He was not cold, Valjean's bedroom, his house, was much warmer than his own place or his office, for that matter. No, it was not the cold that made him shiver, if he was shivering in the first place.

Valjean untangled himself from the sheets and got up, tall and strong, like he always was. He took a sheet and dragged it off the bed, with him towards the balcony. He stopped in front of Javert and smiled, warm and kind, and the light of the sun rising over the city illuminated the strands of silvery-white in his hair. He should not be like that, he should not _look_ like that for he looked almost--almost _beautiful_.

Valjean put the sheet around Javert's shoulders and grabbed it at the front, pulled him in. Valjean's right hand sneaked around to rest on Javert's back and his left one remained curled on the fabric. He brought their bodies flush together and put his lips against Javert's cheek.

"You are," he murmured. A pressed a soft kiss to Javert's temple. "I was thinking--"

Crack. And another, against one of the bedroom windows. Valjean frowned; the hand at Javert's back fell away and Valjean turned so that he too faced the window. Another crack. Someone was throwing stones at the window.

"I know you are there! I can see you standing by the balcony door!"

Clara. Of course, Clara. Who else. Javert closed his eyes, sighing. He shrugged the sheet off and let it fall to the floor. "I should go."

Valjean stared at the lying sheet. "Javert--" he said, but Javert held up a hand and Valjean fell silent. It was a good thing; Javert disliked that tone of his. Gentle, almost caring, almost as if it mattered. That tone never brought forth any good.

Javert moved around the room swiftly, efficiently, picking up his discarded clothes. Breeches, stockings, vest, where the hell was his shirt?

Another crack. "I suggest you move quickly," Clara called. "Your idiot people are looking for you."

Ah, there it was. He found his shirt under an armchair near the bedroom door. He picked it up and hung on the backrest, unbuttoned Valjean's shirt and allowed it to fall to the floor as well. He put on his own and tried to smooth out the wrinkles. Not possible, it lied on the floor for too long to appear respectable. He sighed and made a move towards the door; his boots he left on the ground floor, in the drawing room, along his greatcoat. He moved. He stopped, having caught Valjean's gaze.

Valjean smiled. "What is the matter?"

"Stop that," Javert asked, hoping it did not sound like pleading. "Stop--looking at me like that."

Valjean ceased smiling and his eyes lost a spark that was there ever since he woke up. "Looking at you like what?" he asked in return and crossed his arms over his bare chest. He was still entirely naked yet seemed unashamed, of his nakedness, of his scars that Javert could see and count. It was all there, in the open. Honest. That was Valjean, in his entirety, bared for him to see. 

And yet it was him who felt exposed. "Like--" He shook his head. "It is of no import."

"Javert!" It sounded like a reproach.

Three cracks, one after another. Clara was getting impatient. He shook his head again and put his hand on the doorknob, pushed the door open. "Later."

He did not run down the stairs precisely, but he was in a haste to get out of the house. He put on the boots and threw on the greatcoat without buttoning it, stepped out of the maisonette and into the cold of a November morning. He put up the collar against the biting wind, quickly pushed a couple of buttons through whichever holes were the closest, and made his way across Place Royale, to the Rue Saint Martial. As he made his way around the corner of Valjean's estate, he noticed Clara gracelessly jumping off the wall surrounding the maisonette's garden.

"That is a private property," he said when Clara caught up with him. She brushed some dirt off the skirt of her short dress, but most of it she simply smeared across the fabric.

She smiled cheerfully. "Not your property," she pointed out, "and I am sure Valjean would not mind. After all, if he intends to keep you, he will have to grow accustomed to various people coming and going. You are a busy man."

"I am not something one can _keep_."

Clara stopped. She put a hand on his chest and stopped him as well. She regarded him quizzically, cocked her head to the side, squinched her eyes. "No," she said in uttermost seriousness, "you are not."

She flattened her palm against his chest and buttoned his coat properly, her fingers working fast on the few buttons he missed in his haste. Then she looked up. Made a face. Reached out and upwards, grasped a wayward strand of his hair that must have been sticking out at an odd angle all the damn time. She tugged at it, grinned.

"Must have been quite a night," she teased.

He batted her hand away impatiently. Resumed his walk towards the steep and narrow Rue du Clocher. Clara stood still behind his retreating back before sprinting after him. The heels of her favoured man's boots clinked on the cobblestones. She tried to rub the back of his neck when she caught up, extended her hand to and went for it, but he ducked, reflexively tense. She did not comment on that as they turned right, into the Rue Gaignolle. She did not say much at all.

"Who is looking for me?" he asked as they made their way through the crowded street. All around them, various merchants were opening up their businesses, readying for another day of work. 

"Lenoble," Clara replied. "He sent Borde and Faucher to wake you, but they did not find you at your house. Lenoble has been frantic ever since."

"So you took up the task yourself." It was no use asking Clara where did she get all that splendid information from. Her gossip network was flawless and included several of Javert's own men. Speed with which Clara received information from everywhere — including the prefecture and the mairie — was simply astonishing. Some of the gamins must be working for her, he was sure of that. He knew, perhaps better than anyone, how fast little boys could deliver messages.

"Better me than Borde." She shrugged. "I knew where to look for you, it seemed most efficient."

He bowed his head and buried his chin in the collar of the greatcoat. Was he that predictable? Was he truly spending that much time with Valjean, _Jean Valjean_ , of all people? The answer was: yes, of course he was. A month ago he was convinced that the man was dead. Now he was _not_ and it seemed--it seemed--Almost too good. Too good to be true. It would not last, that he knew for sure. Good things never lasted. Valjean will grow bored, one day. Perhaps tired. Perhaps he will grow to hate this place, perhaps he will grow to hate this house that he stupidly bought, perhaps he will grow to hate _him_. It did not matter which of those it will be, one of them for sure.

He glanced sideways at Clara, walking briskly with a smile on her lips that never quite reached her eyes. If people like Clara Delpont, genuinely good if a little eccentric, were doomed to a life of sadness and disappointments, what hope did anyone else have, least of all someone like him.

Clara waved a hand at the entrance to Café Soleil in the building which stood, narrow and tall, where the street forked in two directions. "Coffee," she said.

Javert shook his head and quickened his pace. No, absolutely not. The faster they got to the prefecture, the faster the whole issue would go away. It was doubtlessly something idiotic and not worth anyone's time, but Lenoble was such a ninny that he feared to do anything by himself, even if that included something as simple as writing a letter.

For a city that boasted a police force of thirty-six — excluding him — it was a perfectly dull place. Nothing ever happened here. Montreuil-sur-Mer was a much smaller town and had a population some one tenth of that of Limoges, yet there was always something to work with there. Here? Most days were spent on making sure that no baker would cheat on weight or quality of his goods, that no animals would allowed to roam the streets unsupervised. The upkeeping of the municipal regulations. Javert was sure that if only Limoges was not a prefectural city, the police force would be reduced to only the required three.

After all, excluding the Telbon affair — and no one wanted to talk about the Telbon affair, no one even wanted to remember it and Javert was infinitely glad for that — the last major incident happened over seven months ago and it was a simple theft.

"Why is Lenoble looking for me?" What a disaster must have happened that his direct subordinate could not deal with it himself? Javert smiled to himself. Perhaps Faucher had once again been threatened with a pig's leg by the butchers and Lenoble had no idea how to talk with them, how to get them to do whatever it was that they were refusing to do. For a person who grew up on Rue de la Boucherie, Faucher had terrible luck with the butchers, just like his father years ago.

They turned left at the fork and walked the part of Rue Gaignolle that led directly to the Place de la Préfecture. They passed countless workers on their way to the manufactures on both sides of the river. Many of them recognised Clara and bowed their heads for the much-liked Mademoiselle Delpont; some asked her to pass their greetings to the good doctor Delpont and his wife, and every time Clara smiled politely and promised that she would. Only a few people extended the pleasantries towards the commisaire; Javert was glad for that. He cared not for their cordiality and he knew he would never be as well-liked and respected as Clara's father. Silence was always preferable to false pleasantries.

Clara put a hand under his arm as they neared the prefecture building. "Oh, you know, this and that," she said. She squeezed his forearm. "You are going to love it. They found a body near Pont Saint Étienne."

~***~

There was a body. A young girl, no older than twenty, found by a washerwoman on the riverbank. A suicide drowning. Corbin was the one who hauled her body out, the dainty Corbin, living just by Rue des Petits Carmes. It was the washerwoman's scream that drew his attention to the bridge, to the muddled water beneath it. And there it was. A body, the first one in years, causing panic with its deathly blue colour. Corbin did what duty required of him, then pushed the matter into the hands of a man in charge of that quarter of the city. Lenoble. The absolute worst person to handle this. Of course he did not handle this, that ninny, too terrified to even think of anything other than finding his superior.

Bodies were a common feature in Paris, were found almost on a daily basis, especially with Patron-Minette on the large, so it was with a degree of grim resignation — and a sudden feeling of homeliness equally strong — that Javert ordered the body to be taken to the mortuary and asked that idiot Borde to call on a doctor to examine it. A feat that was apparently something Lenoble was unable to perform on his own. That was in the morning; it was almost noon now. No doubt the flawless rumour mill of this city was already working; perhaps soon someone would come forth and claim the victim as their family member. A distraught father or a sobbing mother, or a brother who worked late at one of the factories and never had time to notice anything wrong with his sibling. 

Perhaps a madame would recognize her as one of her own.

Why had she done it? She was pretty, he had heard Corbin say in a hushed voice. Tall but with sufficient curves and a headful of thick blond hair. A pretty face, long lashes, plump lips. A tight and showy dress, red. A similar shade on her lips and smeared across one of her cheeks. A prostitute, clearly. Why had she done it? Did she find she was pregnant? Did she want to unburden whatever family she had? Did she want to escape the life that she led? Corbin said she looked as if she was sleeping. But she drowned. She would not have looked that peaceful if she fought against the water. She would have grimaced against that burn in her chest, the feeling of it being torn apart. She would have trashed and struggled to get above the surface, and she would splutter and cough and inhale the water, and ultimately she would have just--let go. Given up. Allowed it to claim her. But she would not have been peaceful. Did she even know how to swim? 

He knew how to swim. 

"I examined that body of yours," Hèctor Delpont told him when he entered the Delpont house in the afternoon, after being ushered in by Hèctor's wife. The Delponts' maid huffed and set to disrobe him of his greatcoat, tugging at buttons and collar as he tried to bat her hands away.

Javert knew that much already. That was precisely why he came.

"It is not mine," he said, finally having managed to pry the maid's hands away from his clothes. She huffed again and put her hands on her hips. It would look vaguely threatening if not for her petite stature or indeed her height alone, as she barely reached his shoulder. "Was it not Renoux who worked in the mortuary today?"

"It was," Hèctor admitted, "but I volunteered for a second opinion. It is not everyday that we find a body around here."

"So I have heard."

Hèctor pushed the dining room door ajar and stepped aside to Javert in. Javert rolled his eyes but entered reluctantly. He did not sit down by the table, choosing instead to remain standing by the door. He did not come here for _dinner_.

Hèctor came inside as well. He graced Javert with a long look and sat down next to his wife, all the while not taking his keen hazel eyes off Javert. They stared at one another for a full minute, in complete silence, before Hèctor raised a brow in a challenge. The maid came in carrying a pot of a steaming soup. At the smell of that, Javert's stomach rumbled, not so gently reminding him that he ate nothing today yet. Javert closed his eyes, moved from his spot by the door to the table, knowing the route by heart. He pushed a chair back and sat down. Truth be told, he never came here for dinner and yet always ended up roped into staying for it, into joining the family. Family. The Delponts treated him like a family, even though he was a complete stranger. The late Monsieur Delpont he could, if pressed, say that he understood; the man had known him since he was a mere boy after all. But the siblings? He had not met them until June and that was less than six months ago. After the elder Delpont's death, the siblings were under no obligation to be civil with him in a more than strictly necessary way.

And yet here they were, eating dinner, like a family. It was certainly one of the more surreal developments as of late. Wholly unexplainable. He glanced towards Hèctor's wife, caught her eye. Henriette blinked and smiled encouragingly. She was a new addition to the Delpont family as well, having married Hèctor this past August. He knew that. He was there, after all; he drank and even danced at their wedding. How was it that Henriette's father had put it at the reception? The Delponts were like germs: once you caught them, you would never be rid of them.

There was an uncomfortable amount of truth in that. The old Guillem Delpont had been a permanent fixture in his rather bleak childhood memories; even forty years later the man had been ecstatic about getting to see him again. And now his children, both of them. The Delponts' kindness and hospitality was even shown by the people who married into the family, if Henriette was anything to go by.

Perhaps it was contagious.

"It appears I am late," Clara noted cheerfully as she stormed into the dining room and gracelessly threw herself onto one of the remaining empty chairs.

"That is novel," Hèctor murmured and sarcasm dripped from each of his words. He reached for a glass, drank some water in large gulps.

Clara shot him an angry glare and cleared her throat. "I will have you know that I was out, gathering information about our darling deceased."

Her eyes moved to Javert when she said that. He put down a spoon he was holding, clasped his hands and pressed his mouth to them. He schooled his features to show polite interest.

"Were you indeed?"

Clara leaned across the table, upsetting Henriette's glass. It wobbled and almost fell over; Henriette caught it in time, preventing her water from being spilt over the tablecloth. "I was," Clara said, not having noticed the mess she had almost made. Hèctor pressed fingers to his temples and began massaging them. "She was not from here. None of the local prostitutes know her and the _octroi_ employees told me they have seen her entering town yesterday."

"You talked to the prostitutes," Javert repeated. In truth, it would not be the silliest thing Clara had ever done. That bottle of pennyroyal oil she had once obtained, heedless of any danger associated with that...

"Yes, I did." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. "More importantly, they talked to _me_. People _like me_ , you see. They find me trustworthy and approachable." She pointed a finger at him. "Unlike you."

"Touché." They stared at one another over the table, over two plates of deliciously smelling tomato soup that was slowly going cold. "Why do you care so much?"

"You are asking the wrong question. The right one is: why don't _you_?" Clara shot back, as if it personally affronted her. As if she thought it natural that he _should_. So presumptuous. "A young woman comes to this town, and what for? To commit suicide?"

Hèctor clinged his spoon on the side of his glass to gain their attention. "It was not a suicide," he said. Javert turned his head to him so fast he could swear he heard it crack. Clara's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "Did I not mention it already?"

"No," Henriette said with reproach. "You somehow failed to."

Clara bit on her forefinger, as was her habit when she was deep in thought. Javert ran a hand down the back of his neck, gripping his own shoulder. Looked down at the plate full of soup. Suddenly he did not feel like indulging in family dinners any more. Looked up at Henriette. She smiled at him again. The dinner was over, she knew it too.

"I think you should go to the study," Henriette said as she stood up. She made a quick work of circling the table and pushing at each of their shoulders, motioning the three of them to get up. She clapped her hands and pointed at the door to the adjoining study, used once by the elder Delpont. Once they entered, she closed the door behind them.

"So," Clara said, "not a suicide."

Hèctor shook his head. "She was murdered."

Javert sat down in a leather armchair; he crossed his legs and pressed his finger together. Regarded Hèctor with interest. "What makes you say that?"

"The fact that she did not drown." Hèctor turned to him, before making his way towards a cabinet in which his father stored alcohol. He took out a bottle of brandy, took a glass and poured himself a generous drink. He did not offer it to anyone. "She suffocated, or rather — _was_ suffocated." He put the glass down. "There is bruising on her neck, a distinctive shape on her throat. Someone choked her, but not with bare hands, those are not bruises made by fingers. It rather seems that they pulled on something she was wearing, a choker most likely."

"Perhaps she simply was wearing it too tight?"

"No, then the bruising would not be _that_ visible. Additionally," Hèctor smiled grimly, "the choker was not there when she was found. So, where is it?"

"Why did Doctor Renoux mention nothing of it?

Hèctor shrugged. "Perhaps he did not pay attention. After all, it was just a prostitute. Who would bother. It would not be the first he was--negligent."

"You do not look excited," Clara addressed Javert.

Javert raised a brow. "Why would I be excited? How heartless do you think I am?" he asked sharply.

"You keep saying that nothing ever happens in Limoges." She made a broad gesture with her hand. "There you have it, a murder. You know, my father always said that nothing spices up one's life quite like a nice homicide."

He tried to imagine the good old Guillem Delpont saying what his daughter tried to put in his mouth and failed. It did not go together with the image Javert had of the man, loud and happy and genuinely nice. "No, your father did not say that."

Clara's eyes narrowed; she stared at Javert for a full minute before sighing. "No, he did not. But I did, and I stand by what I said. Does this case not interest you, even a little? Who would want to murder a prostitute?"

He pushed himself off the armrests and came to sit on the edge of the chair. "I could name you quite a few people who would want to murder a prostitute."

"You don't want to take on this case," Clara noticed. Of course he did not; more importantly, he did not have to, it was within his rights to assign it to any of his subordinates. He stared at Clara, Clara stared back. He blinked. "Fine," Clara ceded, "but who would want to murder a prostitute and then make all that effort to have it look like a suicide?"

To that he had no answer. When a prostitute was murdered in Paris — or even in Montreuil, that one time, back in the day — their bodies would be found in the gutter in some back alley, just lying there, abandoned with a slashed throat. Finding a murderer was next to impossible so not one villain cared; they knew they would not be found out. But to stage a suicide--That implied a hidden motive. It was not a mere murder of a prostitute, a tryst or an assault gone wrong. Someone clearly had wanted no one to look deeply into this girl's death. And they almost succeeded, would have, if not for Hèctor Delpont and his damned kindness.

"It will be nearly impossible to find them," Javert pointed out. He settled back into the armchair. "And we cannot be sure that it _was_ a staged suicide. Perhaps they struggled on the bridge and the killer simply let the body fall into the river."

Clara came to stand behind the backrest; she put her arms on it and leaned forward so she was able to speak directly into his ear.

"But we could try," she said. "You _owe_ me. And, I will bet you for that attempt. If you are right and we find nothing, I will tell you which of your men are always willing to share secrets with me and I will swear to never pull their tongues again."

"And if I am wrong?"

He felt Clara smile against his temple. "It is the fête de la Saint-André next Saturday, and I am in a desperate need for a dancing partner." He glanced at Clara. "Of course we could also talk about that _other_ reason you do not want to meddle in this case."

They could talk about that, of course. They would not, not in a million years, talk about that. "A dance sounds wonderful."

~***~

They parted ways. He went back to his quarters — cold, for the nights were so in November and he had not been here in a few days — and Clara stayed with her brother and sister-in-law. The next day, they agreed on. The next day they would take to the streets and ask, and perhaps someone would tell them something about a young golden-haired girl who met her fate in the muddy waters of the Vienne.

It would be good for him, to finally work with something tangible again. Ever since he had personally escorted Telbon to the _maison centrale_ , there was nothing for him to do. Limoges was quiet and the duties of its commisaire were not extensive. He should have refused that appointment, allowed Lenoble to take the position he so eagerly awaited. He made a mistake, in a moment of pride and satisfaction. He had suspected that no good would come of that and nothing came, of course. Per usual.

He wondered if that was why Clara seemed so desperate to make him work on this one. He was used to being active, doing things on his own, his way, both in Montreuil and in Paris. He was not like the elder Delpont; tranquility of this place did not suit him. It was also entirely possible that Clara wanted to address that _other_ topic. She was observant, too much for her own good.

The next day came and went. The officers at the borders told him they saw a young woman fitting the dead girl's overall description enter the city Wednesday afternoon via the Route d'Angoulême. One of them she had asked about an inn; that was a lead, something to follow from. Perhaps this would allow him to pick up a scent; so he looked for an inn nearby the Place des Carmes, used his position to access the registers in hopes of finding so much as a name. The innkeepers all looked at him with distrust and contempt, but that was to be expected; it was common knowledge that they kept bad record or failed to ask for their guest's papers. This would have to be dealt with, one day soon. It would simply not do, to carry on like this; for all his strength of character and dedication to upholding the law, the elder Delpont was too lenient with people of the town, he was too understanding, too gentle, too kind.

There were sixty inns in the city, seventeen in the Place des Carmes and Place d'Orsai area. It was the register in the ninth one, at the corner of Rue de la Mauvendière and Rue de l'Amphithéatre that caught his attention. A woman, traveling alone from Saint-Junien, rented a room two nights ago.

Javert tapped his finger on the register book's page, right under the woman's name. "Stella," he said to the innkeeper's wife. The woman looked uncomfortable under his close scrutiny, tried to avoid his gaze. "There is no mention of her leaving."

"I--I don't know, monsieur," the woman stammered. She kept rubbing her palm against her other arm, perhaps in an attempt to draw his eyes away from her face. "It is my husband who keeps the books."

"Where is your husband, madame?"

"Not here," the woman answered.

Javert closed his eyes and tried to keep himself from snapping at her. "I can see that," he forced through gritted teeth. The woman shrugged. There will be no more talking to her, there was nothing of value she could tell him now.

Javert shut the register and pushed the book towards the woman. He could list sixteen violations of the municipal regulations based on the few pages he saw alone, but that would have to wait. Here was a girl, traveling alone, staying alone in questionable lodgings and never leaving them on record. And her name. Unusual, for a person of a social standing so low that she had to make do with an inn of this sort.

Javert bid the innkeeper's wife goodbye and left the building, walking out and into the Champ de Foire. He strode across it, the greatcoat billowing behind him like a pair of folded black wings. The next logical step would be to discover what the girl was doing in Limoges, why had she traveled all the way to the city in the middle of the week, when nothing worth seeing or partaking in was to take place. It would be logical to travel to Saint-Junien, to ask an inspector there about the dead girl. If such a trip would produce no new leads then it would inform the Saint-Juniauds of the girl's death at the least. Maybe someone would come to Limoges and claim her body before it was to be buried in a common grave.

"Javert!" Clara Delpont was running towards him from the direction of Place d'Aisne, waving her left hand, her right clutched in the fabric of her usually mid-calf skirt, now hitched up even higher. "Stella!" she shouted. "Saint-Junien!"

Goddamn it.

"Stella," Clara breathed as she got to him, panting heavily. She put a hand on his shoulder and leaned on his taller frame. "From Saint-Junien-- _Le Colibri_ ," she panted. Noticed the complete lack of surprise on his face. Frowned. "You--know. Already."

"Of course," he said. He removed Clara's hand from his shoulder, continued walking, albeit slower, so that Clara could catch her breath. "I visited the inn, conversed with the innkeeper's wife."

"The innkeeper's daughter also had something interesting to say. Oh, and she had this, too." Clara reached to the pocket of her waistcoat and produced a key on a string. She pressed it to his palm. "Stella left it to her for safekeeping before she left the inn Wednesday evening."

The key was small, easily fitting in his hand. It could not have been made for anything other than a simple, provisional lock on a door in an obscure building, a dingy place that a prostitute could barely afford. "She suspected she might not come back," he murmured.

"Or wanted to be sure that whoever it is she was to meet would not get his hands on it." Clara closed his fingers around the key and squeezed his fist. "Fancy a trip?"

~***~

The journey to Saint-Junien would take some three hours; it was barely noon so they did not have to set out straight away. Clara had some business to attend to prior to undertaking it, Javert had duties to perform as well, a veiled argument or two with the prefect to take part in. Lenoble would have to be informed of his absence; Lenoble was the least incompetent of the higher-ranking officers, and as much as it pained Javert to do — Lenoble was not trustworthy, he was too self-absorbed, too easily swayed, too easily bribed, never did anything the way he was told to — there was no one else with sufficient experience or, for that matter, sufficient nerves, in whose hands he could leave his post. Inconveniences stemming from living in the province. 

Clara obliged herself to obtain them a carriage. Faucher's family owned a tilbury and Faucher owed the Delponts' a favour, she said; but a tilbury would not be sufficient, she claimed. He shrugged, not caring much. They had parted ways on the Place de la Préfecture; he went into the prefecture building while Clara continued across the square and ducked into the Rue des Barres, disappearing from sight. It was not the safest part of the city, never has been. Rue des Barres led directly to the Viraclaud quarter, in the fork of Rues Viraclaud and des Combes. Eleven of the fourteen officially sanctioned brothels were located there. God only knew what business Clara had there.

He knew, of course, that Clara had her people among the prostitutes as well. She was right in saying that she was seen as more approachable than him. She was a good listener, she always had a good word ready; it was easy to put one's trust in her. But this time it was not information Clara was seeking, no; she went there with a pouch full of money and she never paid anyone for talking. People did that out of their on good will, finding in Clara a kindred spirit; so no, this time, she went there looking for something else entirely.

It was late afternoon when he retired to his quarters, intent on waiting for the girl there. She would not come to the prefecture herself and Javert strived to avoid having to sit through another dinner with her family. Not in the mood for idle talk, it was his only alternative, to go home. Clara knew where he lived; she had broken in there enough times to know the route leading there by heart.

A knock. And another one, more insistent. "One would think you would have got a spare key from my landlady by now," Javert said, opening the door, fully expecting to see the top of Clara's curly-haired head at his eye-level and finding himself staring at Valjean's chin.

"I was unaware of this possibility," Valjean replied gently. Javert gripped the doorframe and stood there, rooted to the floor, quietly hoping that Valjean will go away. Valjean shifted his weight to stand on tiptoe and peeked inside the room over Javert's shoulder. "May I come in?"

Javert grumbled an invitation and sidestepped to allow Valjean through. His eyes darted to the unmade bed, to a small wardrobe, to the solitary table with one single chair standing by it. His room looked so bland in comparison to Valjean's house at the Rue Plumet; it was bland even when compared to the sparsely furnished and still dusty maisonette at the Place Royale, one that still lacked the personal touch no doubt introduced to the Paris home by that daughter of his.

"It isn't much," he said, nervous for some reason. Stupid. Valjean did not care and could not care any less even if he tried.

"I have been here before," Valjean reminded with a smile. Ah. Of course. Of course he has, that first night — not first, not technically, but _first_ , first after that death that was not. And yet, that did not stop him from fidgeting under Valjean's soft gaze. His eyes should not be so soft, his gaze should not be so fond.

Valjean stood in the middle of the room, looking equally uneasy. Had he a hat with him, he would no doubt the playing with it, twiddling with it. Good manners dictated that Javert should offer to take his coat; the apartment was as cold as the street outside, however, and there was nowhere to hang it, the wardrobe being too cluttered with Javert's meager possessions.

He could at least offer Valjean the chair; he hastened to clear it off casefiles and papers he had received from the mairie three days earlier. He moved the papers with trembling hands and dropped them onto the bed. He noticed that his hands were trembling and hated himself for it, clenched his fists.

Valjean's fingers closed over one of his fists and oh, when did he move from his spot in the centre? "You had not come yesterday," he said. He rubbed his thumb across the back of Javert's hand in a soothing, comforting manner.

His hands ceased shaking. Singularly curious. "Was I supposed to?"

"You promised to sup with me," Valjean explained, still holding his hand. He managed to slip his fingers under his and was now working on unclenching them, straightening his digits, coaxing them into limpness. He caressed the knuckles. "'Later', you told me."

Javert snatched his hand away. "I had no time to attend to your whims," he snapped, unfairly, as he did promise to come to the maisonette for supper, come to think of it. He forgot. Then there was that tomato soup he did not eat in the end. "I still don't."

He noticed his use of a contraction; normally, he kept himself in check and tried not to use them, knowing it was a first step in slinging back to the Provençal accent he had acquired in his youth, then to that language, so different from the French he was taught so fiercely in childhood and which he worked hard to keep pure.

"Then perhaps we could eat tonight, here," Valjean proposed, looking around the room. His nose wrinkled when his eyes fell on that single chair and the table with a burnt surface.

Javert folded his arms across his chest. "Is there something wrong with your house?"

Valjean looked taken aback by that question. "It is--big," he murmured. "Cold. So empty, with Cosette living in Paris--"

"Maybe you should not have bought it so off-handedly."

"Javert," Valjean said, smiling again. It was that damned sweet, placating smile Valjean used to send his way in that time after the barricade, during those two months when he dared hope, before Javert took all his candid offerings and threw them back in his face. "I was thinking--you could come with me, to the house. Stay. We have lived together before."

"We have also wanted each other dead before."

"It would be convenient, much more than," Valjean made a gesture with his hand, encompassing everything that made up Javert's supposed _home_ , "this. No rent, for the house is mine, a trusted old servant that Cosette has found again, one to never reveal any secrets, and company--"

"You fear an empty house and a cold bed," Javert said, in a tone that made the simple sentence sound like an accusation. Of what? He could not say. "You are afraid of being alone."

Valjean opened his mouth and then closed it, against this thing he was going to say. He looked down to his shoes, his right hand sneaked to rub the scar on his left wrist — he did that when he was nervous and unsure of what to say, Javert has observed, but it was unclear whether Valjean knew of this habit or has been doing so involuntarily — and he said nothing. He opened his mouth again after a beat, but the lock clinked at that moment and Clara opened the door. It seemed she had obtained the spare key after all.

Valjean took a step away and clasped hands behind his back, straightened to his full height, easily towering now above the girl. "Mademoiselle," he greeted a surprised Clara. Turned to Javert then, "I was unaware you were expecting a guest."

Clara's eyes dragged over Valjean's form lazily. "We were preparing to leave town, actually." She swung a small leather bag she was holding. "I have everything we might need, there is a carriage waiting by the Rue du Saint Esprit."

"To leave?" Valjean parroted, sounding unsure and not a bit distressed. "Why?"

"Investigation," Javert replied laconically. He motioned the door. "If you would--?"

Valjean nodded, thought he appeared--hurt, for some reason. He gathered his bearings, ran a hand down his coat, brushed off some imagined specks of dust, bowed his head in a farewell to Clara and moved past her, out the door and onto the staircase. His footsteps echoed in the silence of the building. Clara stared at the spot where Valjean's back disappeared on the stairs with a peculiar expression, partly contempt, partly wonder.

Javert took the greatcoat out of the wardrobe and put it on. "Shall we?"

Clara looked at him dubiously, but did not press the issue. He walked out of the room and she locked the door, pocketed the spare key. They walked out onto the Rue de Canal and Javert turned right, towards the Rue Vigne de Fer and the Boulevard Sainte-Catherine. He consciously chose the longer path, so to avoid Rue de la Boucherie and the butchers' quarter in general. In the years since he lived here last, he managed to forget the overwhelming stink of the streets.

Boulevard Sainte Catherine took them directly to Rue de Saint Esprit. It was one of the more spacious streets, tracing the shape of old city walls that used to separate the Cité from the Château and that he had a vague recollection of; and yet, like any other street in this Godforsaken city, it was crammed and, more often than not, impassable. It was late afternoon now, nearing evening, thankfully; the shops were closing and the streets were slowly becoming deserted. It took no time at all to pass the distance and notice the carriage waiting at the junction.

Javert opened the carriage door for Clara and allowed her to enter first. She waited for him to settle comfortably before she knocked on the wood to give their driver a sign to go.

"I could have waited if that conversation was important," she said, referring to the scene in his quarters. Clara was not the most tactful person he had ever met, far from it, but she would have tried to salvage the situation, for his sake.

Which would have been pointless.

"It was not," he answered.

~***~

Clara managed to remain silent for whole twenty minutes of the ride.

"You don't look happy," she noted. She sat in the carriage on the seat opposite him, her bag put down beside her and her legs stretched, propped up next to him.

Javert huffed. "Do I ever look happy?"

"Occasionally." She cocked her head, treated him to a long, judging look. "I have seen you happy before. That day when I told you he was the one who bought the Telbon manufacture."

"Before that, for five whole months, I used to think he was dead."

He put his arms on his chest and leaned his head against the carriage's window, closed his eyes. There were three hours of a journey in store for them, and he did not sleep well the previous night. Might as well sleep now. It was quiet, save for the sound of hooves on gravel, but it was a nice sound, soothing in its predictability and repetition.

And then Clara asked, "Why are you not happy?"

"Does silence ill bother you?" he snapped back at her. She giggled.

"Hèctor often asks the same thing." She sighed. "I simply don't understand."

Javert wrapped his greatcoat tighter around himself and half-turned closer to the carriage's wall. It was the wall he addressed next, "He proposed I come live with him, at the orchard house."

"Not an unreasonable proposition," Clara judged.

Which was beside the point. She was not seeing it. "It will not last," Javert said and assured himself he did not sound bitter. "One day soon he will see reason and wash his hands of me, once and for all, like he should have a long time ago. He will find out everything, and he will leave. None of this will matter and it will become a thing of the past."

"You don't know that."

"It never lasts."

Clara dropped her legs from the seat and sat up, in a swift movement she leaned forward to him. "Which is in no way an excuse not to try. I tried. I failed, but at least I have no regrets. You cannot possibly tell me that there is not a single thing in his life that would cause him to be ashamed."

How was he to explain Valjean to her? A convict, a mayor, a hero, a criminal but a good man at the same time, a _pardoned_ man in the end. "Valjean has an amazing talent of turning shameful things into values," Javert said with dry humour colouring his words.

"Someone ought to," Clara murmured. She leaned back in her seat, folded her hands in her lap. "How long have you known him?"

He glanced at her. She knew nothing of Valjean, of the circumstances in which they met, what went on from that point. Should he omit Toulon? "About thirty years," he said finally.

"Let me put that into perspective. You have known him longer than Hèctor and I have been alive." That was a thing to ponder. "And how long have you been in love with him?"

Ah. There was no point in lying, no point in pretending he had never told her anything that would amount to this question, that he never allowed Clara to sit on the windowsill of his room and read rubbish gothic novels. He settled for simply shrugging in lieu of an answer.

"Allow me to hazard a guess: five months. Those five months during which you thought he was dead." He shrugged again, which Clara took for a confirmation. So, so presumptuous. "Loving a dead man is easier than loving a living one because there are no expectations, it is safer. But he is not dead _now_ and you are unsure of what to do with that. Close?"

Javert looked at Clara, smiled wryly. "He is a saint," he said. "No one can live up to a saint, least of all someone who is," he hesitated, chose the next word carefully, "broken."

"You are not broken," Clara said, but it did not sound encouragingly. Her tone spoke more of deep sadness and contained hints of an apology. "You are--bent. It is possible, not easy but possible, to put together pieces of a thing that was broken. It is infinitely harder to fix something that was warped out of its shape."

He nodded. It made sense, a frightening deal of it. He faced the carriage's window again. He exhaled against it, let his breath fog it; traced a silly pattern before the fog disappeared, taking everything with it. "Perhaps you are right."

The carriage rolled through the countryside.

~***~


End file.
